Emilia, But Death

How can I not distaste the grass?
The toilet house built for the solitary traveler
on the road from Napoli to Messina,
the dust kicking up its memories of bones,
my sandals of cow-leather
flavored with the apprehensions of the slaughterhouse,
the retreat of a slave girl from her owner
to the East, the Ionian Sea,
across the plains, up to Olympus,
to track down Jove, to kick his fucking ass.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s